


Safe with you... or whatever -Mick ♥️️

by homosexed



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Artist Mickey Milkovich, Caring Mickey Milkovich, Cuddling, Domestic Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich, Fluff, Insecure Ian Gallagher, M/M, Quarantine Weight Gain, Season/Series 11, body image issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-01
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-13 10:49:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29775048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/homosexed/pseuds/homosexed
Summary: Ian is a little insecure about the weight he’s gained during quarantine, and he wonders if Mickey is ok with it.Mickey thinks Ian looks pretty damn good— he’s been having fun secretly sketching his hot-as-fuck husband.EXCERPT:Ian peers at the page, expecting it to be a drawing of his dick or something. It’s... not even close to that.It’s a drawing of him and Mickey asleep, wrapped up together on the couch. Ian’s laying back, and Mickey’s resting on top of him, nestled comfortably between his legs, head on his chest, and an arm splayed across Ian’s stomach. Ian’s got his arm wrapped around Mickey’s back, holding him close. They look relaxed and peaceful as fuck.Ian notices that picture-Ian’s shirt is riding up, with his soft belly poking out over the waistband. It’s a detail that Mick could easily leave out, yet he includes it. Ian reads the caption:‘safe with you... or whatever. -Mick♥️’. Ian’s heart beats faster. Fuck, he loves this asshole so much.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 37
Kudos: 248





	Safe with you... or whatever -Mick ♥️️

**Author's Note:**

> Hi there! This is inspired by some of the body shaming that Cameron Monaghan has unfortunately experienced, and his now-deleted tweet about how he gained weight because Ian would probably be gaining some weight over quarantine. (I’m paraphrasing; I don’t remember exactly what he said)
> 
> But yeah! I wanted to sensitively explore this topic a little-- Ian’s body image now that he’s beefed up some more, and also Mickey starting to draw again! Yay quarantine hobbies!

Ian’s stomach rumbles as he pulls on a pair of gray joggers. The waistband is snug, and it digs into the flesh at his hips. He slips his fingers under the elastic and tries to stretch it out. 

He looks over at Mickey— he’s laying on their bed, sketching something in his notebook with a pencil stub. His brows are furrowed in concentration, tongue tracing the corner of his upper lip as he draws. 

Mickey’s taken up drawing over quarantine. Ian knows he used to like it when he was a kid, but Terry told him that _“Milkoviches don’t fuckin’ color.”_ He started up again when they were both locked up, doodling here and there. Then he stopped for a while after they got out and had to deal with all their shit. 

Now in quarantine, Mickey has enough time to do his art, but he doesn’t like to call it that. Ian can tell that Mickey enjoys it, even though it’s hard for him to admit it. Old habits run deep, and Mick is slowly, carefully, and tentatively starting some new ones. 

Ian sees Mickey take a quick glance up at him before scribbling some more stuff in his notebook. He smiles as he walks over and tries to peak at the pages. “Whatcha working on?” 

Mickey flushes and closes his book. “Jesus, Gallagher.” He looks up at Ian, scowling but his eyes aren’t into it, “not gonna let you see till it’s done.” He chuckles, “nosy fuck.” 

Ian rolls his eyes and leans down, rubbing his hand over Mickey’s pajama-covered thigh. “Alright, asshole.” He meets Mick’s eyes—they’re sleepy in that soft sorta way—and he sees him stifle a yawn. “You tired? I’ll turn off the light if you want.” 

“Nah,” Mickey shakes his head, “I’m gonna work on this for a bit longer.” He roams the length of Ian’s bare torso, mouth tugging into a small smirk. “ _Goddamn_ , Mr. Milkovich.” His eyes go lower and pause at Ian’s waistband that’s pulled tight at his hips. 

Ian looks down too. He didn't have much luck stretching it out; it still digs in—just a little bit—but enough for his belly to jut out and be more prominent than usual. 

Ian knows he’s gained some weight, gotten a bit softer and wider, but he’s gained muscle too. He’s been lifting heavy kegs and doubling up on portion sizes for fuel over the last several months since quarantine started. He likes being stronger, but he’s also not always thrilled when he looks in the mirror and sees his softer tummy and the beginnings of a double chin. His stomach rumbles some more, and he thinks of the extra chocolate creams that Mickey stashed for him downstairs. That, and an ice-cold beer. 

Ian watches Mickey, who’s still studying his ill-fitting joggers. Ian feels his cheeks warm, and he imagines the flush spreading across his chest. Jesus, he hates being a ginger sometimes— it makes it so obvious whenever his usually pale skin tinges pink. Whatever, it’s Mick, so it’s not that big of a deal if he sees that Ian’s a little embarrassed. 

Mickey clears his throat and looks back up at Ian. He laughs and gestures at Ian’s lower half. “I uh... think your sweats shrunk in the wash or some shit. Looks uncomfortable as fuck, man.” He grins and opens up his notebook, starts sketching again. 

Ian feels relieved. He figures that Mickey would tell him if he thought he was a fat, lazy piece of shit. He _hopes_ Mickey would tell him... 

Ian knows that Mick loves him for more than his body, but sometimes he remembers the days when he was lean and fit for ROTC and could do fifty pull-ups easy, and Mickey would watch with hooded eyes as Ian’s t-shirt lifted and exposed his toned stomach and they’d fuck rough and hard and good. 

Or when words from strange men— _“I want the little twink to suck me off”—_ made him _feel_ something, _happy,_ like his body was the only good thing about him. It probably was, at the time. It got him cash, so that has to count for something. 

Mickey’s never really commented on Ian’s body besides the typical “goddamn” or “fuck, you’re hot”, but Ian hopes that Mickey isn’t secretly turned-off by his quarantine weight gain. Rationally, he knows that Mick isn’t someone to hold back what he thinks, and they still bang like crazy, but part of him feels like he owes it to Mickey to at least keep his body in good shape, especially since he can’t guarantee shit with his mind. 

Ian decides to test the waters. “Yeah, my joggers are a little small. Probably ‘cause I’ve gained some weight.” He looks at Mickey to gauge his reaction, but the asshole just grunts and keeps drawing shit. 

Ian doesn’t want to say it again or disrupt Mick while he’s focused on whatever he’s drawing. It’s taken Mickey a while to let himself have these moments where he’s just doing something because he _wants to_ and it’s _fun_. No reason beyond that besides enjoying himself. Mickey never got to do that much, and Ian doesn’t want to stop him now. Plus the weight thing isn’t a big deal. He’ll try to talk about it later. 

“I’m going to get a beer,” Ian says loudly. And probably those donuts, if he’s being honest. 

Mickey grunts again and turns the page, eyebrows furrowed in concentration once more as he squints and scribbles. 

Ian chuckles and feels his chest warm at the sight— Mickey’s unguarded and relaxed and it’s really fucking good. 

He heads down the stairs and into the kitchen. He quickly reaches into the back of the spice cupboard where Mickey stashed a couple chocolate creams. He pulls the bag out and leans against the sink as he chews, savoring the rich, thick vanilla filling, fried dough, and sweet chocolate frosting. Fuck, this is good. He’s halfway through his second one when Carl comes up from the basement. 

“Hey,” Carl nods as he opens the fridge, grabbing a beer. He turns around and gives Ian a weird look as he laughs, “sure you should be eating that shit, man? You’ve gotten kind of big.” 

Ian rolls his eyes and swallows. “Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind, asshole.” 

Carl shrugs. “Whatever. I’m surprised Mick hasn’t said anything.” He takes a huge swig of beer and starts heading back. 

Before Ian can respond, a gruff “Mick hasn’t said what about what?” comes from the stairs, followed by familiar, loud clomping that grows near. 

Mickey appears at the bottom of the stairs and ambles on over to them, grabbing the open beer bottle out of Carl’s hand and taking a swig. He stands beside Ian and looks at him. “You were takin’ too long, man.” He chuckles, “was wondering what the fuck you were doing.” 

Ian shoves the rest of his donut into his mouth to avoid responding. 

“He’s stuffing his face as usual,” Carl responds helpfully. 

Ian feels a prickle of annoyance as he swallows the last bite down. “Jesus, Carl.” He takes a hesitant look at Mick— 

Mickey just looks confused. “He’s hungry, man.” _FUCK_ comes to rest on Ian’s forearm as he turns to Ian. “You find the chocolate creams?” 

“Yeah. Thanks, Mick.” Ian forces a smile. He regrets not putting a shirt on as he looks down at his bare, slightly bloated stomach. It’s poking out even more than usual now. Ian’s pretty full actually, and he probably shouldn’t have eaten both of them. 

“Later.” Carl pulls another bottle out of the fridge and eyes Mickey warily as heads back into the basement. 

Mickey chugs the rest of his beer down and sets it on the counter. He belches, then “Fuck was that about?” 

“It’s nothing, Mick.” Ian sighs and crumples up the empty donut bag, tossing it in the trash as he heads towards the stairs. “Let’s go to bed.” 

He hears Mickey grumbling something about, _“not telling me shit”_ before sounds of opening and closing the fridge, bottles clinking, and familiar heavy footsteps following him up. 

They reach their room and remember to shut the door behind them this time. Ian heaves himself onto the bed and sits. He can’t help but notice how his belly rolls over his too-tight waistband, and it kind of makes him feel like shit. 

“Scoot the fuck over, lover,” Mickey says. He sits beside Ian on the mattress and hands him an open beer. “Here ya go.” 

“Thanks.” Ian takes a sip. 

Fuck it. “Uh... Are you... _ok_ with how I look?” Ian cringes inwardly.

Mickey just raises a brow, then smirks. “I fuckin’ married your ass, didn’t I? ‘Course I am.” He chuckles, “Don’t expect me to write any songs about your dick though.” 

Ian rolls his eyes. “Alright, Mick.” He probably has to be a little more direct if he wants to get answers. He feels his cheeks warm and hands prick, but he reminds himself that this is _Mick_. He breathes in, “I mean like-uh... since I’ve gained weight during this quarantine shit.” He gestures to his soft stomach, and forces himself to look at Mickey. 

Mickey’s brows furrow for a moment, like he doesn’t quite understand. Then his eyes widen in dawning comprehension. “Hey, man.” He rests a rough, textured hand on Ian’s belly and starts rubbing in circles. “I don't give two shits if you put on some weight.” He adds a bit more pressure and continues rubbing the taught, tender, sensitive skin, easing the tension. 

Ian lets out a small, surprised sigh. “ _Oh._ ” That actually feels pretty fucking good. 

Mickey pauses, and his cheeks tinge pink. His voice is gruff, low, “I uh... actually been drawing some shit. I was gonna wait till Valentine’s Day ‘cause they’re not done yet, but maybe you wanna see ‘em now?” He looks down at his lap, then slowly back at Ian, like he’s afraid he’ll say no. 

Ian smiles warmly, “of _course_ , Mick.” 

Mickey fumbles a bit as he grabs his notebook from where it’s lying on the corner of their bed. “Okay, but don’t fucking laugh, asshole.” He glares, but his eyes go soft and nervous real quick. 

Ian leans into Mickey, thighs touching. “I won’t laugh,” nudges him with his shoulder, “unless they suck.” 

It’s the right thing to say. Ian feels Mickey relax as he huffs a laugh. “Asshole,” Mickey grumbles. He turns to a page and tilts it towards Ian. “Here’s one.” 

Ian eagerly peers at the page. It’s a drawing of... Ian? With his towel wrapped around his waist, like he just got out of the shower. Mickey’s shaded the details too— the gentle curve of his belly, the swell of his biceps, a few light scars on his chest. 

“Holy shit, Mick.” Ian feels his mouth gaping open, but he doesn’t give a fuck. He looks at Mickey, who’s biting his lip and wiping _FUCK_ on his pajamas. Ian smiles at him, “this is awesome.” 

Mickey lets out a small breath and starts to smile slowly, “yeah?” he asks gruffly, hopefully. 

“Hell yeah, holy fuck.” Ian’s eyes roam over the picture some more, pausing at his face. He squints at it. “Why do I look so annoyed?” 

“Oh.” Mickey chuckles. “Remember when you were all pissed at me ‘cause I wanted to use a real fucking gun? You had just got out of the shower, and you were all hot and bothered lookin’.” He points to some writing on the side, “Did you see my uh... caption?” 

Ian grins and takes a closer look: _‘ur hot when ur mad. We should’ve fucked instead. -Mick <3’ _

Ian honestly feels like his heart is going to burst with affection for his thoughtful, rough-around the-edges husband. “You’re so talented, Mick.” 

Mickey flushes. “Shut the fuck up, asshole. The ‘portions aren’t exactly right but it’s getting there. Been watching some YouTube and shit.” He takes the notebook out of Ian’s hands and flips to another page. “There’s another one for ya.” He shoves it onto Ian’s lap and stands. “I’m gonna take a leak while you check it out.” He ambles away before Ian can protest. 

Ian shakes his head in amusement as he peers at the page, expecting it to be of his dick or something. It’s... not even close to that. 

It’s a drawing of him and Mickey asleep, wrapped up together on the couch. Ian’s laying back, and Mickey’s resting on top of him, nestled comfortably between his legs, head on his chest, and an arm splayed across Ian’s stomach. Ian’s got his arm wrapped around Mickey’s back, holding him close. They look relaxed and peaceful as fuck. 

Ian notices that picture-Ian’s shirt is riding up, with his soft belly poking out over the waistband. It’s a detail that Mick could easily leave out, yet he includes it. Ian reads the caption: _‘safe with you... or whatever. -Mick <3’. _Ian’s heart beats faster. Fuck, he loves this asshole so much. 

The door swings open, and Mickey comes back into their room, slamming the door behind him. His _U-UP_ fingers rub together as he walks over and sits beside Ian on their bed. Mickey turns to him, “You-uh... saw it?” He rips the notebook out of Ian’s hands and holds it up to his own face, rigorously eyeing it up and down before he rests it face-up on his lap. 

Ian places his hand on Mick’s forearm, feeling him settle a bit. “I love it, Mick.” He smiles, “is it based on a picture? When did we take that?” Laughs, " _who_ took that?” 

He watches as Mickey tries—and fails—to suppress a grin. “Yeah, it’s based on a picture Debbie took. Remember after Thanksgiving—we were so fucking full of turkey and shit and we knocked out on the couch?” His brows scrunch as he shakes his head and chuckles, “pretty sure that fucking bird really _does_ make you sleepy.” 

Ian remembers. “That was a good day.” He squeezes Mick’s arm. 

“Yeah,” Mickey says. He picks up the drawing again and points to picture-Ian’s stomach. “Look man, this shit—it makes it real. I’m not drawing some fucking god or twink or fuck knows who. I’m drawing _you. All_ of you.” He takes a breath and looks into Ian’s eyes. “My fuckin’ family, Ian.” 

Ian leans forward and sets his beer on the bedside table. Then he wraps his arm around Mickey’s shoulders, bringing him in close. He buries his face into Mick’s neck and inhales the scent of salty sweat and Dial soap and mint toothpaste _._ He utters a muffled, “I love you, Mick. Sorry I— sometimes I just get—” 

“Don’t worry about it, man. I’ve got you. I’ve fuckin’ got you.” 

(If Carl has a black eye the next day, Mickey has no idea how it happened.)

**Author's Note:**

> Woo! This topic was a bit tricky to tackle, especially with trying to keep Ian and Mickey (hopefully) somewhat in character. 
> 
> Feel free to let me know what you thought, if you want. (But please be nice because I’m still learning lol and they’re still a little difficult for me to write.) Thanks for reading!


End file.
